Rose Petals and Blood
by merrylynn
Summary: A wash was just what she needed. It had been a long battle with more casualties than one would like. Her body reeked of death. All she could feel were men's blood pouring from their bodies and onto her skin. She wanted that feeling to go away. She needed it to go away.


**Premise is behind what would happen when Arya returned from Braavos and became a kickass Queensguard for Sansa. The North built their troops and just had a battle against the House of Frey at Riverrun. The Hound is still alive and joined the North along with Jon, Gendry and Ned Dayne. This is set way in the future, Arya's probably like 17/18. **

**Inspired by the prompt, _Frenzy_, from AryaxGendry week. I doubt I'll do the rest of the prompts, but I really wanted to do this one. I always wanted to write about Arya and Sansa tearing shit up in Westeros and reclaiming Winterfell. I also love the idea of Gendry and Jon being the dynamic bastard duo. **

**This might not make any sense, it's by far the oddest thing I've ever written. However, I like it, so I decided to share it all with you. **

**Enjoy! :-) **

* * *

"Arya? Where are you going?"

Arya looked behind her to find her sister, Sansa, peering at her curiously behind the burlap curtain of her woven tent. She looked like she didn't belong in a place filled with misery with the musk of death and the strangled agonies of the wounded men. Her auburn hair looked too shiny, too light that Arya had to avert her eyes. The hem of her ivory and midnight blue silk gown was tarnished against the muddy earth. Her lips curled in a soft smile and her creamy white skin looked too pure to belong in the same room as the God of Death.

"I'm going to take a wash."

She pushed aside the curtain to join her sister, "I'll come with—"

"Alone."

Sansa blinked. Arya felt a pang of guilt over her brash tone, but stood her ground. Her sister didn't reek of death nor was she covered in dirt and someone else's blood. She smelled like pink roses, fruity wine and lemon cakes. Arya wanted nothing to do with her right now.

"Alright," she said slowly, clasping her hands in front of her. She looked like the perfect lady in her silk gowns, shoulders back and hair in soft, auburn curls.

Arya looked like the savage she always was and always will be. Her hair mattered against her forehead, falling out of her braid. Her armor dented and tarnished with splatters of blood. She kept her shoulders slumped.

"Wait one minute," Sansa told her before disappearing into her tent. When she returned, she held a bar of soap and bottle of perfume in one hand and a folded piled of clothes in another. "Wash with these. They are from Highgarden."

Arya kept the soap and perfume away from her body, holding them like she would a poisoned cup of wine. The poignant, feminine smell burned her nostrils. They were too light, too delicate to belong to someone like her. Someone who just slaughtered over a hundred men in just one afternoon.

She walked down to the hot springs, Nymeria followed close behind. She growled at any man who dared speak to Arya. Nymeria could use a bath as well. Her white fur was stained in a crimson red. Flared tendons and flesh were stuck between her snarling stained red fangs.

When she approached the springs, she wasted no time in getting nude. She pulled her long bow from behind her back and dropped it on the ground. She then untied her scabbard form around her waist and let her swords fall to the ground with a soft thud. Soon, her armor clattered on the ground. She tore off her shield, her helm, her breastplate, her chainmail until they all sat in one giant heap. She kicked off her boots and wool socks to add to the pile. Next, she began unlacing her breeches and shoved them off her hips.

She lifted her tunic up to her shoulders until she felt some restraint. She tugged a little hard until she felt the fabric peel away from her bruised and battered skin. The back of her tunic was bloodied. Must have been from the Frey who managed to stick his sword between her armor and slice open her back. His tendons were the ones now stuck between Nymeria's teeth.

She quickly peeled off her small clothes till she stood, naked in front of the edge of the hot springs. Before she dove into the steaming water, she picked up the sickening sweet bar of soap. Then she ducked under the water.

A wash was just what she needed. It had been a long battle with more casualties than one would like. Her body reeked of death. All she could feel were men's blood pouring from their bodies and onto her skin. She wanted that feeling to go away. She needed it to go away.

The water whirled around her ears, drowning out the noises from her battle. The clashing of swords, the shouts from her fellow men, the agonizing screams of the dying and, of course, the sound of swords slicing bodies right open.

She kept herself down beneath the water as long as she could. With her eyes closed, all she could see was death. Her men falling all around her as the sky began to rain with arrows. She remembers Jon screaming at her, "Fall back! Fall back!"

Arya couldn't decide what smell was worst: decaying bodies or scorched skin.

Her lungs were burning. She kicked her legs and broke through the surface, gasping for hair. Water collected around the fridge of her eyelashes, making her vision blurry. She reached along the edge till she found Sansa's soap. Rose petals were stuck underneath the waxy surface.

The last thing Arya wanted was to reek of rose petals during her meal tonight. It's bad enough having tits. Her men didn't want to smell the sweet fragrance of flowers, reminding them of their ladies back at homes, in the inns or in the brothels.

But, the smell of men's blood was much worse, so Arya began washing with the fragrant soap. Layers of dirt and blood were caked onto her so she scrubbed the soap over her skin. Hard.

It was one of the few times Arya had been horrified at the sight of death. The God of Death may be her only god, but it was a cruel one none-the-less.

Arrows continued to rain down all around her. Men were crying out as they fell to the ground, arrows sticking out of their stomachs, arms, legs, sometimes their face.

Arya stood, her eyes trained on both the sky and the lines of men before her. Her sword was drawn. She felt her skin prickle as she waited to see who would be the first one to strike.

The Freys did. They all began screaming and charge themselves at them, looking like rabid animals.

Ned Dayne was sticking close behind her being his usual stupid chivalrous self. Cutting down men that were within her close proximity.

She remembered growing more and more agitated with each man that fell.

"Ned! Stop that!" She barked at him.

He flashed his stupid, pearly white smile at her before driving his sword behind her. Arya turned around. A man fell to his knees before plummeting to the ground. His face that was once a snarling scowl was now mushed into the ground. Ned's sword that was sticking through his back was drawn out and a large gaping hole was replaced, oozing with blood.

"I could never resist a damsel in distress," he teased, bringing his sword up to block another shot.

Arya had it in her mind to swipe her own sword across his stupid smirk, but knew better not too. They were at war. As much as Ned annoyed the shit out of her, he belonged to her pack and saved her life more than she could count.

Then, a fire roared through the battlefield, cutting the field in half. Men began screaming in horror, failing backwards. Those fortunate enough to be alive, but unfortunate enough to be standing along the field were soon roasted to death.

She continued to scrub her skin with Sansa' soap. She was pressing down on her skin harder than it was needed. It was a surprise that the soap hadn't snapped in two under her death grip.

When the flame lit up the middle of the field, the Hound had nearly leaped out of his own skin. He began running back to the forest where the rest of the men began scrambling to.

Arya remained rooted in her spot, watching the flames nearly lick her face. They danced around her, much like Syrio use to back at King's Landing. They had their own Water Dance and their own song of death.

She could have very well stay planted in front of the fire if Ned hadn't began yanking her arm to pull her back with the rest of the group.

His helm had been knocked off. His mattered blond hair was stained with soot and dirt. A line of blood traced along his hairline. His violet eyes had flames dancing in them. He looked terrified.

It became a more frenzied pace as Arya continued to violently scrub the dirt and blood from her skin. The rose petals burned her skin. She breathed in roses and blood. The smell nearly choked her.

The fight moved from the field and into the forest. Frey men were jumping out from behind trees, their teeth bared and swords drawn. They looked like monsters.

"Ned," she whispered, nudging her boot at his shoulder. "Ned."

Ned was knocked out beside her. He groaned, but kept his face planted in the ground.

She huffed, a little annoyed. At least he was alive.

Arya soon found herself surrounded by five Frey men. Her sword was drawn. She kept herself planted between the men and an unconscious Ned. Her eyes trained on them as they inched their way towards her.

They were laughing.

"Princess of the North," one jeered, probing her with his sword.

She swatted him away and kept her sword in front of her.

They began circling around her, like a lion would his prey. That's all they were, lions in disguise. Hired to do the Lannister's dirty work. She hated them. She hated them all.

Arya felt like she was choking. Her chest was heaving, sucking in the steam from the hot springs, the rose fragrance and death. She was blindly trying to rid herself of all the blood on her body. She felt like she was bathing in it. It was everywhere. In her hair, on her face, beneath her fingernails. She couldn't escape the God of Death.

Then they began taunting her. Calling her the Wolf Bitch and the She-Wolf. Poking her with their swords, tempting her to strike at them. She kept her sword straight and her eyes trained. In her head, all she could think was Not Today. She would not die today.

She was coughing, choking back on the gut retching sobs. Sansa's bar of soap was now down to a small stub. She began scratching at her skin to peel away the layers of blood. She was panicked. There was too much blood.

Then they began boasting about Robb, the King of the North. About how they hacked off his head and feed it to their horses the next morning. Then about how they sewed Grey Wind's head on top of his body before parading him around Riverrun, determined to carry it up to King's Landing as a wedding present to King Joffrey.

She kept her eyes trained on the men. These men were idiots. She was there. She remembered that night well.

They started talking about her, on what they should do to her. They would kill her, they decided. They knew about her adventures in Braavos, her time as a Faceless Man. She was too dangerous to keep alive, no matter how pretty she may be.

"First, we'll fuck you then we'll cut you."

He poked his sword between her legs. "From your cunt." He traced his sword up along her hips, over her belly, lingered along her breasts. "Up through your pretty little head." His sword stopped at the top of her head.

"You ever been fucked, girl?"

"I'll even do you from behind. Like them wolves do it."

She killed them. She killed them all.

One minute, they were laughing. Joking about all the different positions they could try on the virgin She-Wolf. Then, they were dead. Her sword was run straight through them before they could even blink.

The rest of the men reacted, drawing their swords to hers. She danced around them, easily dodging their blows. They looked frightened. She remembered them gulping as their swords danced around each other in the air.

She cried out when one of them got their skinny blade wedged between her armor and her body.

When she turned around, Nymeria had jumped from the woods and latched onto the man's neck. His cries were replaced with the sound of him choking on his own blood.

The water splashed. She looked around her blindly. She could barely see straight.

She smelled leather and fire.

Hands covered her own, halting her frenzied scrubs.

"Arya…"

She took in a deep breath, attempting to retain at least some of her dignity. However, when she let it go, it came out as a strangled sob.

"There's so much blood," she managed to get out between her ugly sobs and uneven breaths.

Gendry took the small stub of the soap from her hands and lathered it between his own. He rubbed the bubbles all over her body, cleaning away the blood and dirt from her skin.

Unlike her frantic clawing, his touch was soothing, warm and comforting. He rubbed along her arms up to her shoulders. His finger lightly traced the crocked slice along her shoulder.

She heard him mutter something under his breath as his hands continued to trail along her body. Dipping down her spine to her lower back, he worked his hands all over her. His touches were burning.

She sucked in a breath when she felt his hand rest against her belly. His burning touch had somehow lit a flame in the pit of her stomach.

He kept murmuring words into her ears, but she couldn't focus on anything other than his touch.

All she knew was she never wanted him to stop.

Gendry's fingers migrated from her stomach and began scrapping along her scalp. His nimble fingers began working her hair out from its braid till it flowed down her shoulders.

His touch was hypnotizing to her. She began feeling things she thought she would never feel before. She was use to being so numb. It was nice to feel something.

She shut her eyes, letting the sensation overcome her. She fell back against him, her naked back hitting against his bare chest. Her bottom bumped against his leg. She felt him stand more rigid, but his touches stayed loose, gentle and warm.

She remembered when they found her, drenched in blood.

Jon and Gendry came thrashing through the trees, screaming her name. Jon was in front. He stopped when he found her sitting of the floor, her hair in her face, blood all over her, all around her. Nymeria was to her left, lapping up blood from the gushing neck.

It was probably a sigh to see. His baby sister surrounded by five dead men.

Gendry came crashing into Jon, his eyes wide and wild, shifting all around the forest until they rested on her.

Arya avoided their gaze and focused on their weapons. The blood from Jon's sword was collected at the edge of the pointed end before it came dripping down to the ground. The spikes along the edge of Gendry's war hammer had little tears of flesh on them.

The almost inaudible _pop_ brought her back to the hot springs. Gendry had taken the bottle of perfume Sansa had given her and began pouring it over her hair.

It smelled sweet, like crushed lilies and lavender.

"Arya," Jon called to her tentatively. He moved towards her cautiously, watching her carefully. The weight of his boots caused twigs to snap as he inched his way towards her.

She kept her eyes focused on the thick blood rolling along the length of his sword and off onto the forest floor.

A hand reached out to her.

"Arya."

Next thing she knew, she was on her feet with her sword drawn to Jon's neck. Her eyes were wide, unfocused and wild.

Gendry had yanked Jon back almost immediately. His war hammered was gripped more tightly in his hand.

Water was poured over her head, washing away the dirt and the metallic smell of blood and replacing it with crushed lilies, lavender and rose petals.

"_Stick 'em with the pointy end."_

Jon's Adam's apple bobbed by the pointed edge of her sword. His eyes were searching at her, trying to bring her back.

"Arya," he called out. His voice had a nervous edge to it. "Arya. It's me. It's Jon."

Her glazed over eyes turned to look at him. His hands were held up in front of him, his eyes were wide like saucers. Gendry was looking at her warily, trying to gauge her next move. They were looking at her like they would a wild beast.

She dropped her sword. It clamored on the ground. Her hands was shaking.

Jon kicked it away. Then he grabbed her shaking arm and pulled in into a bone-crushing hug.

"I thought I lost you," he whispered into her ear. She wasn't sure if he was talking about losing her in the battle or losing her in that forest.

Gendry was dragging her from out of the water. She followed behind him blindly, her hand clasped in his. Her hair was wet and loose. Water rolled off her body and onto the ground.

The sensible thing was to cover herself up. She was standing there, naked, wet and cold. Gendry was a man. She knew what things usually came during these encounters.

But, Arya was far from sensible and pressed her lips over Gendry's.

"Are you alright?" Jon asked her, probably the tenth time in the past minute. He held her out in front of him, inspecting her.

Arya just nodded. She tended to forget who she was or where she was at. Sansa blamed it on Braavos and the Faceless Men.

Then, she remembered something.

"Ned!"

She whirled around to see Ned still face planted in the ground. Gendry was standing next to him, looking at him with pure murder in his eyes.

"Is he alive?" Jon asked.

Gendry stuck his boot under Ned's shoulder and kicked. His body flopped over.

Ned let out a pained groan.

"He's alive!" Gendry called over to them.

Jon rolled his eyes.

"Arya," Gendry mumbled against her lips.

Arya took the opportunity to sneak her tongue into his mouth and explore. He tasted like berries and ale. She traced her tongue along the walls of the mouth and touched her tongue with his. It was warm and moist.

Gendry moaned. His fingers curled themselves around her hips, pulling her closer to him.

"Useless," Gendry grumbled under his breath before he picked up Ned and slumped him over his shoulders.

Ned let out another pained groan and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Quit your whining," Gendry grunted. He shifted Ned over his shoulders, trying to get more comfortable.

"You alright back there," Jon had called back to them. His arm was wound around Arya's shoulders.

"Peachy."

"My head," Ned moaned.

They heard a loud thwack and an even louder groan.

"Seven _FUCKING_ Hells!"

"Oops! Sorry, mate! Didn't see that tree over there," Gendry hummed good-naturedly.

Jon turned around to give Gendry a meaningful look.

"Arya," Gendry mumbled, sounding more like a moan.

Her body was flush against Gendry. The hard lines of his stomach burned themselves into her. She wound her arms around his neck and rest her hands in his thick, coal black hair. She felt something twitch inside his wet breeches.

"Arya."

She breathed him in, sucking in his musky smell of ashes and leather.

Gendry pulled away from her lips and pressed his forehead against hers. "Arya."

When she opened her eyes, she found herself looking into his ocean blues. His eyes were gazed over and looked droopy. They were both panting.

"We have to stop," he told her.

She rolled her hips against his and he let out a pained groan.

"Arya," he warned.

She did it again.

"Don't."

She stopped and looked up at Gendry. His eyes were squeezed shut and he seemed to be muttering something, over and over in his head.

He let out a ragged breath and opened his eyes again. This time they were more focused.

"Let's get you dressed," he said hoarsely.

Arya took a step back from him and then remembered where she was. Naked on the edge of the hot springs. She felt a blush creep on her cheeks.

But, Gendry's eyes didn't linger around her body. Instead, he kept his eyes on hers as he reached down and picked up the silk grey tunic Sansa had given her.

"Put your arms up," he whispered.

Arya obeyed and lifted her arms up and straight over her head. She felt the silk fabric dance along her rubbed raw skin. Then, she stepped into her small clothes and a pair of light breeches, propping a hand up on Gendry's broad shoulder to balance herself.

She waited as Gendry yanked his shirt over his head. He reached back and grasped her hand with his and tugged her back to the camp.

In the morning, she'll kick herself in the head for acting so weak in front of him and doing something as stupid as kiss him or letting him see her cry. But now, she follows behind him closely as he brings her back to her tent with the small stub of rose soap and half empty bottle of perfume. Wherever Gendry goes, Arya will follow.

She doesn't miss the fact that he purposely walks past Ned, who is laying on the ground with a wet cloth pressed against his giant red welt over his forehead, wearing a wicked grin on his face.

However, later that night, she does miss the fact that Gendry spent the night in her tent, clutching her hand and whispering comforting little words to ward off the nightmares of blood and death.


End file.
